The little brown house on the Albany road

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THEOTTLE BRDWNHOUSE

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GEORGE-SHELDON

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THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
ON THE ALBANY ROAD^

IT NESTLED SO SNUGLY UNDER THE
GREAT ELM TREE

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^^ THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
ON THE ALBANY ROAD

By
GEORGE SHELDON

DEERFIELD
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR

1915

Copyright 1915 by
GcovQ-e Sheldon

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PREFACE

THIS story was written in 1890 on the occasion
of the dedication of the "Little Brown House"
to a new purpose. A tumbled down ruin, in which
fragments of roof-tree and floor were seen resting
together in desolation on the cellar bottom, had
been converted into a most charming studio, and
was occupied by Miss Annie Cabot Putnam and
Mrs. Madeline Yale Wynne.

The story came to the notice of Edwin D. Mead
of Boston who published it in the New England
Magazine for September, 1898, and a thousand
reprints found their way into libraries and homes.
This pamphlet edition has long since been ex-
hausted, but still the demand continues. To satisfy
this demand the story is now reproduced in a more
permanent form.

I am indebted for the illustrations to Emma L.
Coleman, Annie C. Putnam and Mary L. Cobb of
Boston; Mary P. Williams of Brookline, and
Frances S. and Mary E. Allen of Deerfield.

GEORGE SHELDON

Deerfield, March 16, 1915.

\^^^^

THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
ON THE ALBANY ROAD

THE transformation is wonderful; it seems al-
most a work of magic. The story of Aladdin's
Lamp cannot be wholly a myth. The sky no
longer looks through a gaping roof to a yawning
cellar. The rain, the hail and snow no longer
enter as if welcome guests. Warp and woof, fash-
ioned and dyed in the Orient, supplants the rub-
bish on the rotting floors. Stuffs, rich and rare,
flow from walls no longer black with smoke and
grime. Festoons, rivaling in texture those from
the loom of the spider, which they displace, show
artistic taste and delight the eye. Pictures and
works of art fill every "coigne of vantage."

Gone the staggering partitions; gone the low,
brown, ragged ceiling. The long slanting rafters
are in full view. The massive chimney and the
rotund oven stand displayed. Kitchen and bed-
room, pantry and parlor have disappeared in one
generous whole. Through the narrow windows,
inviting streams of soft light from elegant lamps

[ 1 ]

The Little Bi^oivu House

are sent abroad into the night towards every point
of the compass. The genii of the place preside over
cheerful hospitality within, where so lately a sad
spirit of seclusion and gloomy content held sway.
No contrast could be greater. In the yellow
light, thrown fitfully out from the burning logs
in the huge fireplace, graceful forms flit to and
fro, appearing and disappearing with the fantas-
tic shadows upon the red wainscoted wall. Sweet
music is heard, soft and weird, as if afar off, and
stories are told of witches urging their broom-
stick steeds across the stormy midnight sky to
festive meetings in uncanny nooks with still more
uncanny folk.

The Antiquary sits upon the hearthstone and
muses. The change seems so unreal and bewilder-
ing; he cannot draw the line, and the past will
mingle with the present. He watches the sparks
and the curling smoke as they rise towards bound-
less space, and voices of the unseen catch his re-
sponsive ear. He hears, in the mouth of the caver-
nous oven hard by, whisperings and wailings from
the spirits of the past, — the household familiars.
Driven from old haunts they have crowded the
oven for shelter, as one of the few undesecrated
spots. "We claim," they say, "recognition before
our final departure. Behold what we bring, and
record what you will." And the Antiquary sees a

[ 3 ]

The Little Brown House

shadowy procession issuing forth from the mouth
of the oven and bearing open scrolls on which are
pictured events centering around this old hearth-
stone,— plain matters of fact, scenes of joy, scenes
of sorrowing, of triumph, of despair, details of
everyday life and duty in the far off past. Shad-

THE HOUSEHOLD FAMILIARS

owy and dim, growing brighter and clearer, the
vision passes upward, disappearing with the smoke
and the sparks. Thus impelled, the Antiquary
records in homely phrase the result of his musings
in the little brown cottage by the old iVlbany road
on the evening of its dedication to a new purpose
and to a new lease of life by its new occupants.

[ -t]

JVie Little Brown House

The little brown house stands on a part of the
tract which in 1686 the " Proprietors of Pocum-
tuck" "sequestered for the use of the ministry of
Deerfield forever." In this service the lot was
leased from year to year by a committee chosen
by the town, the income of it going, during his
lifetime, to the Rev. John Williams, our "Re-
deemed Captive," and afterwards to his successor
in office. Rev. Jonathan Ashley.

As in later days, so in the olden time, leased
lands fared hardly. Every thing possible was taken
from it, and little or nothing returned. In 1759,
after seventy years of this kind of treatment, the
selectmen in a petition to the General Court say,
"the soil is poor and barren for want of manure,"
also that the land is of less benefit to the minister
than its value in money would be, and they ask
leave of the General Court to sell it. There was,
however, another reason for this action, and, it
may be, the main one.

Deerfield was then the center of business for a
large region round about, and craftsmen of many
kinds — "tradesmen" they were then called — were
seeking places here on which to build shops where
they could exercise their handicrafts. Suitable
locations were hard to get, and the ministerial lot,
lying along the Albany road, was wanted for that
purpose. In 1760, under the authority of an act

[ 5 ]

The Little Brown House

of the colonial legislature, this tract was cut up
into small lots by the town and sold to tradesmen.
It had been laid out originally between the house
lot of the "Worshipful John Pynchon" on the
south and the Middle Lane to the meadows on the
north. The Pynchon lot was later the home of
Mehuman Hinsdale, the first white man born in
Deerfield, "twice captivated by the Indian sal-
vages," as his grave-stone testifies. The Middle
Lane became in due time the high road from
Northern Hampshire to Albany and the scene
of military operations against Canada by the way
of the lakes. The lots sold to tradesmen faced
north on this road. Many now living have seen
the guideboard at the head of the " Lane," on
which was a hand with the forefinger pointing
westward, directing the traveler "To Albany."

Very soon this poor and barren land bore abun-
dant fruit. Buildings sprang up, and new sounds
were heard all along its border. The clang of the
anvil and the blast from the bellows of Armorer
Bull answered to the hissing of the flip iron and
tap of the toddy-stick of his neighbor. Landlord
Saxton. The ting-a-ling of Silversmith Parker more
than held its own with the muffled thud from the
loom of Elizabeth Amsden the weaver, and the
soft music of the flickering bowstring of Feltmaker
Hamilton, as it rained blows on the fine fur of

[ 6 ]

The Little Brown House

the beaver, muskrat, or raccoon. The mallet of
Hitchcock, the hatter, responded feebly in a dull
monotone to the sharp speaking strokes of the
hammer on the lap-stone of David Saxton, as he
sat at the east window of the kitchen in the little
cottage on the old colonial road.

Should the traveler from the Hudson, coming
over the Hoosac Mountain to the Connecticut

Valley, be waylaid by prowling Indians, and
stripped of all his effects, he could be refitted and
refreshed within the borders of the old ministerial
lot. Had his horse been spared, it could be fed,
shod, furnished with a new saddle and a port-
manteau; or had fortune been more cruel, had the
horse been taken, the traveler could be provided
with a new one from the choice stud of Breeder

[ 7 1

The Little Brown House

Saxton. He could buy a hat, shoes, cloth for a
coat, and a watch for his fob. He could procure
a sword, musket, or a pair of pistols, and, after
a mu<»' of hot flip and a bountiful dinner with Land-
lord Saxton, the despoiled stranger could go on
his way rejoicing, having obtained all these things
without money, although not without price. In
those days credit was universally given and was
rarely abused.

Come back again to the little cottage where, by
the great window in the east end of the kitchen,
David Saxton hammered the oak tanned soles,
and with well-waxed home-spun thread closed
the seams of honest upper leather, with honest toil
and good judgment. Concerning this latter quality
there is a story told characteristic of the man and
bringing him a little nearer to us.

The shoemaker was so often called upon to act
as referee, arbitrator, appraiser, etc., that he must
be pardoned if he became a little vain of his repu-
tation. He thoroughly enjoyed these labors and
honors; a little grumbling at the burden he might
have thought increased his importance. One day,
while at work on his bench, he was called upon by
a neighbor to act as a referee on some question
in dispute. Springing up suddenly, letting his lap-
stone and hammer tumble to the floor, he exclaimed,
while whisking off his leather apron with alacrity:

[ 8 ]

The Little Broxvn House

"What a cussed thing it is to be a man of judg-
ment!" Nevertheless, this son of Crispin went his
way to exercise this judgment for the benefit of
his fellows with real content.

iVssuming kitchen, dining room and shop to be
one, while the husband and father hammered and
pegged and sewed, and sewed and hammered and
pegged, month after month and year after year,
his good wife, Bathsheba, was always nigh. Here
she baked, and here she brewed, washed, ironed,
boiled and stewed. From his low bench by the east
window one day in every week David could see
the roaring red fire in the big brick oven in front
of him, and could watch the fierce flames as they
curled to its dome and darted their forked tongues
towards him, only to be caught at its very mouth
by the spirits of the air and sent swiftly up the
flue. David could watch his spouse, as with her
long iron peel she removed the glowing coals when
the oven had reached the right pitch of heat, and
with her husk-broom, wetted as need be in a pail
of water on the hearth, swept clean of ashes the
oven floor. And when the oven door had been put
up a suitable time to "draw down the heat," he
could see Bathsheba as she deftly tossed from her
light wooden peel, into the farthermost depths
of the heated cavern, the squat loaves of rye and
Indian bread. This peel was as white as river sand

[10]

The Little Brown House

and "elbow grease" could make it. In due time,
David could snuff the rich savor of the brown
beauties as they were taken out on the peel and
piled upon the table near him, a good week's sup-
ply for the family. The front part of the oven may
have been filled in with pumpkin pies, or tarts with
the initials of the children cut in pie crust on the
top, or, on state occasions, it may be with a spare-
rib of pork, or a pigling entire, a haunch of veni-
son, a wild goose, or a turkey. Nothing came amiss
to this great, warm-hearted friend of the family.

But the oven had a rival in the attentions and
affection of David. Close by, at its right shoulder,
was a capacious fireplace, with its generous back
log, fore log and top log, urging up the climbing
flame, every day, and in season all day long. As
the mouth of the oven was closed six days out of
seven, it had a poor chance against the loquacious
fireplace, which by a side glance came full in view
from the shoemaker's bench. Besides, there was
the great iron dinner pot, which the swinging
crane held out daily over the very heart of the
merry fire, that welcomed it with great glee, laugh-
ing and dancing under and about it, embracing it
with its red arms, and touching its very lid with
its curling lips of flame. The stolid iron, yielding
to its ardent friend, was forced to acknowledge its
subtle influence, and soon David could hear the

[11]

The Little Broivn House

contents of the big-bellied pot merrily gurgling
and babbling of the jolly time they were all hav-
ing, although in hot water together.

So the "pot was biled" every day in the week.
But the marvel and the mystery of it all — the
leaping flame, the solid iron, the hissing steam!
David was no philosopher — the shoemaker should
stick to his last. He was no Watt, to note the tilting
lid. He was no chemist, to analyze effects. He
had a good appetite, engendered by healthy toil
and a clear conscience. He could do ample justice
to the contents of the pot, when piled upon the
pewter platter, as the style on the sun dial lined
with the meridian. But he never stopped — why
should he — or we either for that matter — to specu-
late upon the daily miracle wrought by the loving
fire spirit of the household. David saw Bathsheba
put into the mouth of that pot, cold water, and
then beef, pork, cabbage, carrots, parsnips, turnips,
all cold and indigestible; later he had stopped with
upraised hammer, while pegging a sole, to see her
swing out the crane and souse into the seething
mass a bag of Indian pudding, resuming his labor
when this was safely accomplished. And daily he
had seen these crude materials come out smok-
ing, luscious food, fit to "set before the king."
Therefore the oven got the worst of it in the rivalry
for the affections of David.

[12]

The Little Brown House

If the oven had thought about it, if the fireplace
had thought about it, if David had thought about
it, — which none of them did, — they might have
drawn this moral: Be faithful and useful not only
one day in seven, but every day of the week.

So by the great east window, where the morning
sun shone full upon him, David hammered and
pegged and stitched, and pegged and stitched and
hammered, to secure the understanding of his cus-
tomers and bread for his wife and children; while
Goodwife Bathsheba baked and brewed and ironed
and carded and spun, the hum of the wheel in
harmony with the sound of the hammer. From
flax taken in barter for the products of David's
labor, she spun and twisted the honest thread with
which his seams were closed; and while her foot
pressed the treadle, and her busy fingers gauged
and guided the slender thread her buzzing wheel
sang a lullaby, and David with his stirruped foot
gave an occasional jog to the cradle. For amid all
the sights and sounds of this life of mutual indus-
try and helpfulness, children came to be cared
for and loved, and, alas, to be mourned for. Was
David seen with arms extended as he had drawn
home the last stitch of a seam, gazing abstractedly
at the empty cradle by the oven door, we may be
sure his thoughts were away among the little
mounds, more or less grassed over, in the grave-

[13]

The Little Brown House

yard hard by. Four times during eight years had
that cradle been robbed. Four times the dread
messenger had led a procession out of the square
room beyond the kitchen, over the threshold of
the low-browed front door, to the God's Acre at
the west end of the ministerial lot.

Should we wonder if the stricken Bathsheba
put salt for sugar in her pies, or seasoned her bread
with scalding brine, when we know that across
the level field, in full view of the small shuttered
window of her pantry, slept that city of the dead,
where four of her five darlings had been laid, one
by one and side by side. For she must work as
well as weep. By straining her eyes, as the bright
sunlight streamed across the little mounds, the
mother fancied that she could distinguish between
the fresh scar on the bosom of mother earth and
those partly healed by the kindly ministrations of
time, and she sadly compared them to the scars
in her own bosom; only on these time had worked
more slowly and across these only shadows fell.

It may have been to remove his wife from a
prospect so saddening that David before the birth
of another babe, or before the brown had changed
to green on the newest mound, left the little cot-
tage and sought with Bathsheba at New Salem
that comfort denied their parental longings here.
In their new home the fates were kinder, and

[15]

The Little Brotvn House

children were born and lived to cheer their de-
clining years.

On the west side of our Old Burying Ground,
where the gentle breezes come up from the mur-
muring Pocumtuck, where the aspen reaches out
its kindly hands in benediction over the spot, and
its restless leaves whisper, perchance, tales of

THEY REST TOGETHER

bygone years, the four little mounds lie, side by
side, as of old; but now there are two larger and
longer ones; and on the moss-grown stones stand-
ing at the head of these are recorded the last events
in the lives of David and Bathsheba Saxton.

From David Saxton the brown house passed to
David Hoyt, Senior. If Hoyt then took up his

[17]'

The Little Bfozvn House

abode here, it was doubtless to pursue his calHng
of "maker of wiggs and foretops." In this poHte
generation, the owners of bald heads are told that
this defect is a mark of wisdom and honor; conse-
quently they are apt to be rather proud than
otherwise of their sterile pates. Not so in the time
of which we speak. Whether it was incense to the
goddess Hygeia, or a tribute to the goddess of
fashion, the bald head was carefully covered; the
first ravages by a foretop or by the side hair combed
up and braided on the top; total devastation by a
full wig. Women rarely needed anything more than
a foretop. Engaged in a business like this, himself
well on in years, we can easily imagine the class
of customers and their friends that gathered about
the hearthstone of the wig-maker, sipping their
flip or cider and telling stories, as men of their age
are fond of doing. The host doubtless often told
how his father, when a boy, was captured at the
sacking of the town in 1704; how, being carried to
Canada, he lived with his Indian master at Lorette;
how William, son of Governor Dudley, then on a
mission to \ audreuil, governor of Canada, saw
him on the streets at Quebec one day, and how the
envoy jingled twenty silver dollars in the face of
his Indian owner and offered to exchange them
for the boy; how the savage could not withstand
the temptation, and the captive bo}^ was made free;

[18]

The Little Brown House

how the Indian, soon repenting of his bargain,
came back with the dumb dollars for the live boy
who could hunt and fish. Too late, for Dudley,
foreseeing this, had hurried Jonathan on board an
English vessel, and the Indian went away lament-
ing. David had doubtless often seen this Indian,
for in times of peace he used to come to Deerfield
to see the lost boy, of whom he was very fond.
Jonathan, says tradition, showed great affection
for the savage and declared his sojourn in Canada
to be the happiest part of his life. Of course, David
talked freely on this topic; but there is reason to
think he was fond of silence. He believed silence
to be kingly, if not golden, and so he had married
as a second wife Silence King. A less sentimental
reason — she, too, being a "maker of foretops" —
may have had its bearing on the case. Why not.'^
Love and thrift are good everyday yoke mates; —
blossom and fruit. Thriftless love is too unsubstan-
tial for use.

David's stories would doubtless be matched by
others. Deacon Jeremiah Nims, son of that John
who was taken and carried to Canada from near
Frary's Bridge in 1703, could tell of his father's
adventures while in Canadian captivity and his
terrible experiences when, with three other young
men, he escaped and made his way home through
the wilderness, where he arrived in a demented

[19]

The I/ittlc Broivfi House

state and nearly faniislied. John Williams, Nathan
Catlin, Jolin Sheldon could each relate tales of In-
dian warfare and captivity, heard from their grand-
fathers; while his next door neighbor, Justin Hitch-
cock, could talk of a later war, and thrill his hearers
with his own experiences while responding to the
Lexington alarm. He could tell how the inspiring
notes of his fife renewed the tired muscle of the

CANDLESTICK HARVESTED FROM BURGOYNE
AT SARATOGA

Deerfield Minute Men under Captain Locke on
their march to meet the enraged British lion in
Boston. The fifer could also relate as an eye witness
the particulars and the result of the disastrous
campaign of Burgoyne, and could tell with a relish
how the company of Captain Joseph Stebbins and
others swooped down upon the personal baggage
train of the harassed general, and could perhaps

[20]

The Little Bi^own House

show, like some of his fellows, trophies harvested
on that occasion. Captain Joseph himself, whose
house stood in sight across lots, could repeat the
well known pranks of the mobs he led in visiting
the tories and enforcing their signatures to pa-
triotic resolutions. Others could tell stories of
witches, or of ghosts, as the current talk of the
evening might run. Meanwhile, the light from the
blazing hickory logs was casting shadows of the
group around the hearthstone upon the green
baize curtains of the turn-up bed and the red
wainscoted walls, where they appeared huge and
weird, like the ghosts of restless giants; — pictures
quite in keeping with the tales that were told.

About a century ago, Epaphras Hoyt, son of
David and Silence, became the owner and occu-
pant of the cottage, which then retained its orig-
inal external form, to which recent changes have
restored it. Although a young man, Hoyt brought
with him a valued Experience, and the atmosphere
as well as the form of the house was gradually
changed. Hoyt was a man of genius, whom science
had marked for its own, and he gathered here all
kindred elements in the town. His Experience, or
"Spiddy," as she was called, bore fruit from time to
time, and wider accommodations were required; so
'Aunt Spiddy's bedroom" and back kitchen were
added in the rear, and "Aunt Spiddy's stoop" in
front.

[21]

UNCLE EP

AUNT SPIDDY

The Little Brown House

The favorite studies of General Hoyt were the
art of war, natural philosophy, astronomy and
colonial history. He was in the meridian of life
when the great wars of Europe which followed the
"Reign of Terror" convulsed that continent. As
a military man, he watched the course of Napoleon
with the deepest interest. He followed him step
by step, over the Alps into Italy, over the sea into
Egypt, over the Pyrenees into Spain, where his
cannon disturbed the "burial of Sir John Moore;"
across the Rhine to the fields of Ulna and Auster-
litz and Jena and Eylau and Wagram, as he raged
to and fro like a demon of destruction, ignoring
or tearing into tatters, all the established rules
which had hitherto been the guide for the move-
ments of European armies on the march or in
manoeuvres on the field of battle. Here was a rare
chance to study the art of war on a grand scale
from a new master. Hoyt, like an enthusiastic
patriot, gave himself up to it with ardor and suc-
cess. Can we not see him with the poker drawing
plans in the ashes on this great hearth, plans of
recent battles to illustrate his theme, showing his
friends how Napoleon had beaten the Italians,
the Austrians or the Russians, by this or that
movement, at this or that critical moment. The
point once demonstrated. Aunt Spiddy with a few
whisks of her birchen broom sent the offending

[24]

The Little Brown House

ashes under the fore stick, sweeping aside these
plans no more effectually than some new burst of
genius in the Corsican did those of the crowned
heads of Europe.

One result of these studies was a treatise on
"The Military Art," issued in 1798, for the use of
the United States army. This work attracted the
attention of the first President, and it was doubt-
less by the light of our east window that General
Hoyt read the letter from Washington offering
him a command in the United States army, which
was then being organized for a conflict with France.
Hoyt's work passed through several editions, and
was followed by more elaborate works, largely
prepared under this roof. All were illustrated by
plates, showing the formation and evolutions of
companies, regiments and armies, on parade and
in active service on the field. Imagine sketches of
these plans pinned up on the red wainscoting of
the kitchen, and note the trouble they gave Aunt
Spiddy, when the frolicsome wind from the open
window sent them scurrying over her nicely sanded
floor, with the possibility that some might be
caught in the draft and whisked with the flame
and smoke up the wide-throated chimney. Hoyt's
reason for declining the commission from Washing-
ton we do not know. We do know that it was not
a lack of patriotism or waning love of the military

[25]

The Little Bi'own House

art. Probably he felt the call for home duties more
urgent. He was Inspector-General of the state
troops. Trouble was brewing with Great Britain
as well as with France, and many feared that the
great Corsican would lead his victorious legions
across the water to our shores. The hand of Gener-
al Hoyt may be seen in the action of the Board
of Trustees of Deerfield Academy, when in 1806
a new professorship was established. It was for
teaching the "Theoretical and Practical Art of
War viz.: — tactics according to Stuben and Dun-
das . . . Practical Geometry on the Ground; Ele-
ments of Fortifications, and the Construction of
small works in the Field; Elements of Gunnery;
Topography; Military History; Partisan War, or
War of Posts; . . . These subjects will be under
the direction of Major Hoyt, Brigade Inspec-
tor. ... It is believed that the Present Critical
Situation of our Country will induce young men
to qualify themselves for an honorable defence
against every hostile attack on their native land
and lay a foundation for military Glory."

But our genius sacrificed not alone upon the
shrine of Mars. Gradually, as the years went on,
the little cottage on the Albany road became the
undoubted center of mental activity for Northern
Hampshire. Around its hearthstone the young
men gathered and listened to discussions of the

[26]

The Utile Browii House

most abstruse problems, not only of war, but of
philosophy and pure science. Here space was meas-
ured with a line, the trackless star was traced to
its hiding place by day, the sun after his going
down at night, and a path was predicted for the
erratic comet. Some of the results of these hearth-
stone studies are with us in published works on
astronomy, military science and colonial history
by Hoyt, and on mathematics, biblical criticism,
civil law and general literature by Rodolphus
Dickinson, one of his young friends.

Another boy of whom the world has heard re-
ceived here his inspiration and here enjoyed his
first laurels. Half a dozen rods from the great east
window, Epaphras and Experience could see Mercy,
sister of the General and wife of Justin Hitchcock,
as she leaned from her pantry window for a morn-
ing chat, or busied herself about her back yard
chores, her chickens and her geese. Among her
two-legged cares was a bright, dark-eyed boy, the
torment of her life, who early came under the
influence of his "Uncle Ep." As a mere lad he
would eagerly listen to the talk round his uncle's
hearthstone, and as he grew in years his love for
the truths of science kept pace with his hatred of
the great usurper Napoleon; for all along he had
drunk in the current talk which represented this
master of the art of war as a blood-thirsty tyrant,

[27]

TJic Little Brown House

a cruel monster, whose pastime was the murder
of women and children. Picture the scene at the
cottage on the evening of Monday, March 4, 1805,
as the General read the latest news, that three
months before, at Notre Dame, Bonaparte had
been crowned emperor of France. Did hatred for
the French nation prevent even pity for its fate?
Did righteous indignation or dread despair for
suffering humanity come uppermost in the minds
of the assembled group? One year lacking a day,
other news came, and to the hearers the tables
seemed turned. With what joy they heard the
General read from the Greenfield Gazette a highly
colored account of the success of Alexander and
the allied army over the French in a battle of
December 2, 1805, and the comments — that "san-
guine hopes are now entertained in Europe that
Bonaparte has at length arrived at the termination
of his career." This was the first report by the way
of England of the battle of Austerlitz, a battle in
which Napoleon gained one of his greatest vic-
tories over the combined armies of Russia and
Austria. The fulfilment of these "sanguine hopes"
was not yet. More countries were to be overrun,
and more thrones to be overturned; thousands of
widows and orphans were yet to taste the horrors
of war. At length, however, Bonaparte's hour
struck. June 3, 1814, a hand-bill was received at

[28]

The Little Brown House

Deerfield, which was pubhshed in the Franklin
Herald of June 7, containing the joyful news that
the alHed armies had entered Paris and that the
emperor was a fugitive. We of this day can hardly
imagine the excitement and the thanksgiving
which followed this announcement; and of all the
coterie of the little brown house, not one was more
strongly impressed than the "bright, dark-eyed
boy," Edward Hitchcock. He at once began his
tragedy, "The Downfall of Bonaparte." In its
pages can be seen reflected the sentiment of the
time, which ranked Napoleon as the most heartless
and cruel despot the sun ever shone upon, and
Alexander, the czar of Russia, as the friend of
humanity and the prince of peace. It gives us queer
notions of our democracy to see the emperor stig-
matized in this production as "a mud sprung
reptile," "a filthy toad," a "base born Corsican."
This tragedy, which covered the leading events
of the rise and fall of Napoleon, was put upon the
boards and acted by the leading lights of Deerfield
in the old meetinghouse, part of the pews being
floored over for a stage. This was the event of that
generation, and the assumed names of the actors
clung to many of them through life. In my boy-
hood, the names of Blucher and Ney, Lescourt
and Platoff were as familiar as household words.
This tragedy was evidently composed under the

[29]

IVie Little Broxvn Hon.sc

eye of General Hoyt, for his ear-marks can be seen
on almost every page. The low ceiling of Aunt
Spiddy's kitchen must have looked down a hun-
dred times on the author and his fellows, as they
spouted the lurid lines before the critic in rehearsal
for the stage; and the copj^ist was doubtless often
vexed by changes in the text in order to insert
some new technical military phrase or let in a
little more blood and thunder. How wide a circula-
tion this historic effusion had is not known; but
Horace Greeley relates that when an apprentice
at Poultney, Vermont, the tragedy was acted
there and he personated one of the characters.
In after years, President Hitchcock made efforts
to suppress this callow effort of his genius, and
copies are scarce in consequence. Under the lead
of his uncle, young Hitchcock became an ardent
student of astronomy and, making a practical
application of his acquirements, constructed the
astronomical tables for a series of almanacs which
he published at Deerfield. Some of his problems
were questioned by the astronomers of Europe;
but with General Hoyt at his back he maintained
his ground, and after a sharp contest his positions
were at length admitted as proven by the Continen-
tal Magnates. Doubtless the big fireplace echoed
the rejoicing which followed this victory of a self-
made Deerfield boy over the savants of Europe.

[30]

The Little Brown House

And well it might, — ^for had it not for years been
throwing light from its pine knots on these knotty
questions.

General Hoyt was a graduate of the Deerfield
district school. Edward Hitchcock had in addition
a few winter terms at the Deerfield Academy, and
this was his Alma Mater. Although professor, and
later president of a college, and the recipient of col-
legiate honors from far and wide, he never saw as
a pupil the inside of any college walls, and he may
well be called a graduate of the little brown cottage
on the old Albany road. Perhaps the honor must
be shared with the great elm tree under which it
nestled so snugly, with its moss covered roof. It
is related that the General and his nephew were
in the habit of fleeing, to escape the disturbance
from the children and the swash of Aunt Spiddy's
mop on the floor, to a seat among the branches of
this even then giant tree, to study their most pro-
found problems; and here Edward spent many a
studious hour, refusing to join in the pastimes of
his companions. Certain it is that the seat in the
old tree was a favorite place of resort, not only for
the General and the future president, but also for
their growing sons and daughters.

Hoyt had such an appreciation of and admira-
tion for the Duke of Wellington, that, in 1811, he
named his only son after him, Arthur Wellesley,

[31]

The Little Broivri House

thus anticipating the fame the Iron Duke gained
later at Salamanca and Waterloo. European wars
did not, however, wholly engross the attention
of Hoyt. He is best known to-day by his "Anti-
quarian Researches" concerning the Indian wars
of New England, a work of great value to students
of New England history.

The rise and progress of the events which led to
the War of Impressment with England must have
been watched with the deepest interest and dis-
cussed in all their bearings under the roof-tree of
the Inspector General's cottage. Here would the
patriotic citizens gather; here would be first heard
the declaration of the war, and here first came the
stirring news of our gallant naval victories so un-
expected by either of the belligerents; and here,
we may be sure, were sung the spirited songs they
inspired. The General was not gifted in song, but
what he lacked in tone and harmony he made up
in energy, and doubtless the rafters shook as he
emphasized the sentiment of Chancellor Kilty's
variation of "Britannia Rule the Wave:"

For see, Coliimhia'' s sons arise,
Firm, independent, bold and free;
They too shall seize the glorious prize,
And share the empire of the sea ;
Hence then, let freemen rule the waves,
And those who yield them still be slaves;"

' [g2]

The Little Brown House
or as he joined in Ray's stirring lyric:

Too long has proud Britannia reigned
The tyrant of the sea,
With guiltless blood her banners stain'd,
Ten thousand by impressment chain 'd,
Whom God created free;"

or in the rollicking tribute to Commodore Perry :

Hail to the chief, now in glory advancing,
Who conquered the Britons on Erie's broad wave ;
Who play'd Yankee Doodle to set them a-dancing.
Then tripp'd up their heels for a watery grave."

We have seen that the General did not live then,
as in later years, in scholastic seclusion. Neither
was he an exclusive devotee to science and mili-
tary art. He was an active man of affairs, with a
wide-spread political influence, and was, in fact,
one of the river gods. He was post-master and
registrar of deeds for Northern Hampshire; and
hundreds of pages written by his daughter, Fanny,
by the light from the east window are now daily
consulted by the public. The little brown cottage
was also the center of the executive power of the
new county of Franklin, for the General was high
sheriff. We may trust that when he went in state
to open the courts, Aunt Spiddy saw to it that his

[33]

The Little Bi'own House

blue, brass-buttoned coat was scrupulously clean,
that his cockade and crimson silk sash were prop-
erly arranged, and the hangings of his dress sword
were spotless as the sun.

Time changes all things. The philosopher and
friend, the student and the guide, the man of
science and the man of power departed; and of
his kith and kin the only representative left to-day
on the old Albany road is a young woman who
revels in the quick wit and the flight of imagina-
tion which she inherited from an unexpended bal-
ance in the large brain of her great-grandfather,
Epaphras Hoyt.

No greater contrast can be conceived than that
between some of the early occupants and those
who now for a year and a day make their abode
in the little brown house,- — Rufus Rice and his
fitting mate, Esther. Rufus was a first class repre-
sentative of the typical Yankee, keen, shrewd and
honest in business, droll and witty in words, wise,
careful and farsighted in action. He was the founder
of the fourpence-ha'penny packet express between
Deerfield and Greenfield, which still flourishes un-
der the whip of his grandson, another Rufus.
"Express Rice" had small opportunity for book
learning in youth; but his judgment was sound,
and he came to be much relied upon in business
by the manless maiden, the distressed widow, and

P34]

The Little Brown House

the skilless professor. One of the latter class, after
a vain struggle to repair a water conduit, called in
Mr. Rice. The following brief conversation illus-
trates the prominent traits in both the interlocu-
tors:

"I find," says the Professor, "after thoughtful
consideration and repeated, carefully conducted
experiments with this preparation, that all my
attempts are fruitless, and that the water still con-
tinues to exude copiously."

"O, yaas, yaas, fix it so 't '11 alius leak like sixty."

"I am compelled to acquiesce in your decisions;
but, Mr. Rice, may I inquire what methods you
would recommend to — "

"O, I'll git it fixt as right 's a hoe-handle. Don't
you give yourself no more trouble about it."

In sorrowfully condoling with Mr. Rice on the
great loss he had sustained in the death of his son,
the Professor remarked with his voice full of tears,
"I understand, sir, that your son possessed a con-
siderable amount of mechanical ingenuity, that
in fact he had proved his constructive talent in
practical achievements under adverse circum-
stances, and with great lack of needful appli-
ances."

"O, yaas! yis, you give Seth a jack-knife and
gimlet and he'd make eny most anything."

The sphere of Mr. Rice was narrow; he filled it

[35]

The Little Brown House

well. He left no stain on his character or shadow
on the little cottage. Neither the hearthstone, the
oven, nor the window had reason to complain in
the companionship of these honest everyday folk.
It is said that coming events cast their shadow
before. With the next occupants of the little brown
house, we will suppose in our musings the case is
reversed. One of the fleeting scrolls bears a name
well known in border warfare, that of Sergeant
John Hawks, the hero of Fort Massachusetts,
the compeer of Stark and Putnam, of Burke and
Rogers and other noted partisans of the French
and Indian wars. He died as colonel at his home in
Deerfield Street, next door to that of David Hoyt,
elder brother of Epaphras. Colonel Hawks in his old
age spent much time at the "Old Indian House,"
then a tavern, with the father of Epaphras as
landlord. We may be sure that young Epaphras
improved every opportunity of hearing the bar-
room stories of this scarred veteran of two wars,
that he was often at his brother's house, and that
he haunted the home of the hero listening eagerly
to his door-stone tales. Nor can we doubt that
here was born the spirit of research which seized
upon the wide awake boy, and that in this primary
school he began the study of the "Art of War."
In his "Antiquarian Researches" General Hoyt
does full justice to the heroism of his aged mentor,

[ 30 ]

The Little Brown House

and many a vivid scene of Indian warfare therein
pictured was doubtless in language heard from one
who could say, "All of this I saw and part of which

DOOR-STONE TALES

I was;" and the old warrior could have asked no
better medium for a history of his deeds. These
stories which our three steadfast friends had heard
rehearsed a hundred times in the earlier days, the

[3T]

The Little Broivn House

oven, the window and the fireplace now heard re-
peated to a new circle of listeners, gathered in the
old kitchen; for John Hawks, the newcomer, had
all these tales by heart, and took due pride in re-
counting the deeds of his grandsire. But the times
had changed; blessed peace flooded the land, and
the stories fell on comparatively listless ears.
Epaphras and his coterie had no successors here.
The hearthstone was no longer presided over by
Mars, Clio or Urania. With the passing of the
shadow, the heroic days of the little brown house
vanished for aye.

But the shifting scene had not left the hearth-
stone desolate. On the ruins of the temple of Mars,
the genius of music now established an altar. The
first offering upon this was the babe, Charles, the
first born of John and Emily, his wife, who in due
time became a devotee of Apollo. He was a teacher
of sacred music, a long time leader of the village
choir, and, perhaps, through a strain inherited
from the hero of Fort Massachusetts, he was also
a lover of martial music, organizing and leading
the village military band.

Charles Hitchcock, son of Deacon Justin and
brother of President Edward, born on the adjacent
lot, was the next occupant of the little brown
house, with the additions of his "Aunt Spiddy's
porch" and "Aunt Spiddy's bed room." Charles

[38]

The Little Brown House

was a man of versatile tastes, with strong salient
points in his make-up. His regular occupation was
farming, but in common with his "Uncle Ep"
he had a taste for local history. He was overflow-
ing with stories and anecdotes relating to former
generations of his townspeople which he had ac-
cumulated, the greater part of which are now,
alas! lost forever. The Antiquary must not be
held accountable for the loss of this inside view of
the society of old Deerfield, for at the date of
Deacon Hitchcock's death he had not been in-
vested with the robes of the "Oldest Inhabitant."
He had, however, heard enough from the lips of
the Deacon to become aware that here was a rich
storehouse of local lore; he had called the atten-
tion of Professor James K. Hosmer to the fact,
and had arranged for an interview in the little
brown house, when Mr. Hosmer was to take down
Deacon Hitchcock's stories in writing. This move-
ment proved too late; on the very day appointed,
Deacon Hitchcock was called to a bed of sickness
from which he never rose. This circumstance is
told as a much needed warning to many who
might profit by it. There are Hitchcocks and
Hosmers of various grades in every community.

Taking the warning to myself, I proceed to
make a record, that of all the salient points in the
character of the new owner of the little brown

[39]

The Little Brown House

house, Deacon Hitchcock's love for music was the
most notable. That was unmistakable. To this
the oven, the window and the fireplace will cheer-
fully and unanimously testify. For it was still
before the days of the iron stove and tin oven that
the singing master entertained at all hours of the
day and untimely hours of the night his friend the
minister, a musical composer and writer of hymns.
Here it was that new theories were discussed, new
combinations of notes tried, and especially new
adaptations of language to tunes. The melodies
of the sweet singer of Israel were released from the
harsh bondage of Sternhold and Hopkins, and made
to clothe the more harmonious measures of the
minister, while the more lurid verses of the uncom-
promising Watts were rehashed or banished with-
out compunction to meet the more generous inter-
pretation of the Scriptures vmder a milder form of
theology. The theology being settled, this did not
trouble the twain, but to adapt the piety and
beauty of Watts to the new conditions and new
claims of musical science was a task requiring all
the knowledge and all the skill of these earnest en-
thusiasts; and it was here that the "Deerfield Col-
lection of Sacred Music * gradually took on sub-
stance and form. As the melody of music was in
their hearts and voices, so the science of music
was upon their lips; they talked earnestly and

[40]

The Little Bi^own House

musefully by the light of the east window, the
tallow candle or the pine knot, of octave and
compass, of pitch and accent, of chords and triads

NOW SILENTLY RESTING IN
MEMORIAL HALL

and cadence, of points and counterpoints, of can-
ons finite and canons infinite, of scale chromatic
and diatonic, of sequence and modulation and

[41]

The IJttlc B?'ozvn House

transformation, even unto the weariness and con-
fusion of the unlearned. Doubtless the big-bellied
bass viol, made by Deacon Justin, and the pitch
pipe he used, both now silently resting in Memorial
Hall, could testify, if summoned, of all these
things more fittingly and more musically than the
unmusical muser of this hour.

It is natural to assume that Deacon Hitchcock
inherited from the amateur builder of the bass
viol his love of harmony; but this could not fail to
be fostered by the example and influence of William
Bull, the composer and publisher of a musical trea-
tise, who lived next door to the house in which
Charles was born and brought up. However this
may be, when Charles in early manhood became
intimately associated with Samuel Willard, the
unshackled minister of free thought and free ex-
pression, a great opportunity was given him for
cultivating and refining his strong native talent.
The new friendship was harmonious and mutually
helpful. The saintly Dr. Willard did not, indeed,
dwell beneath this roof, but his hallowed voice
seems on this occasion to echo from wall and ceil-
ing, conjured up, it may be, by the subdued melody
evoked by the skillful touch of his musically in-
spired granddaughter.

Meanwhile the warm-hearted oven and the cheer-
ful fireplace, ignoring all ancient rivalry, clung

[ 42 ]

The Little Brown House

together as fast friends under the same mantel-
tree, while the great east window smiled serenely
on both. Well and faithfully each of the three
served in its own way those who understood their
secrets and their power. Charles, the singer, had
readily made friends with the musical fireplace,
but he understood not the mysteries lying in the
depths of the oven; they were unfathomable to
him. When he had pondered for a time what he
should do, he hied away to the hills beyond the
valley to the home of the setting sun, even to the
house of Isaac, surnamed Baker. Now Isaac had
a comely daughter who had aforetime looked with
favor upon the itinerant singing master, and after
a short responsive wooing the twain became one.
There were literally "no cards" for the wedding
party. The venerable secretary of the Pocumtuck
Valley Memorial Association, then a boy of ten,
gave out the invitations verbally from door to door.
It was on a birthday of Washington three score
and ten years agone, that the friends of Charles
and Lois held high festival within these walls, and
so was celebrated the advent of the bride and the
new mistress, who then began a new life here with
our three friends, and with the pantry of Bath-
sheba and Silence and Experience. These were all
glad of her coming, especially the oven, which well
knew that, although no longer a Baker by name,

[43]

The Little Brown House

she would continue to practice the art; and from
its mouth came abundant proffers of good cheer,
and thenceforth it gave Lois loyal and warm-
hearted service. The pantry vied with the oven in
the welcome. Although its shelves were weighted
with pounds of pound cake, piles and piles of pies,
dishes of doughnuts, jars of jams and jellies, bas-
kets of bread and biscuits, cakes of cheese, plates
of cookies and gingerbread — these long shelves,
ranged one above another, their edges newly decked
with scalloped paper, laughed cheerily as they
displayed their tempting treasures to the optics
and olfactories. Had a vote of approval been then
and there taken, it is doubtful whether the ayes
or the Jioes would have carried it. All these culinary
preparations had been made by volunteer friends
of the groom under the lead of Aunt Hannah
Hoyt, sister of our friend, the General. Being the
head of the commissariat, she wore on this occa-
sion, as the insignia of her office, the big gilded
epaulettes of the bridegroom. Tallow candles
made luminous spots here and there in the dark-
ness. The electricity of that day shone on the faces
and was manifest in the spirits and light move-
ments of the guests.

In the glowing hickory coals under the fore
stick lurked the loggerhead at a red heat. Cool
mugs of home-brewed beer, flanked with eggs and

[ 44 ]

The Little Brown House

sugar, stood hard by, ready to meet the fire fiend
in a friendly contest. The result of all the hissing
and foaming and spluttering which followed was
like that of many heated, wordy combats: each
side claimed the victory. In fact, however, the red
iron always turned black and retreated under the
fore stick for reenforcements, while the mug of
flip went briskly about, cheered by, and cheering
in turn, the company. On this occasion it was
flanked by a big tumbler of Santa Cruz toddy,
which was passed to old and young.

Singing and playing games, like the "Needle's
eye" or the "Barberry bush," may have been in-
dulged in; but one amusement of wedding parties
of the day, " Chasing the bride round the chimney,"
certainly was not. The oven objected to the game
and would not budge; it stood sturdily the whole
evening, blocking the only path. It still objects,
and still holds its position.

Dancing, which at divers times and places, has
been up and down the gamut of public opinion,
from the lowest bass, where it was considered
the most subtle device of Satan for the ingathering
of souls, to the highest pitch of piety, where it
ministered to the exaltation of saints, — dancing
at this time in Deerfield was ranging among the
joyous notes and was at high tide of popular favor;
it was an especial accessory to wedding festivity, —

[45]

The Little Brown House

and certainly the centennial of Washington's
birthday and the wedding day of Charles and Lois
was celebrated with the customary decorous
hilarity. It is safe to assume that Harry, the brother
of Charles, was master of ceremonies in this fea-
ture of the entertainment, for he was an ardent
disciple of Terpsichore. We hear of one noteworthy
occasion when Harry sacrificed his desire for this
diversion on the altar of friendship or, perhaps,
of friendship and indignation combined. It was
the day when the mutual friend of the brothers,
the musical minister, had been refused ordination
by an adverse Council. Harry, in behalf of the
young people, wrote a feeling letter notifying the
rejected candidate that in consequence of their
sympathy for him at the action of the Council the
Ordination Ball arranged for the evening would
be given up. ■

The music furnished to regulate the tripping
footsteps on such occasions was usually the sym-
pathetic fiddle, — the young chaps chipping in to
hire a fiddler. If none was available, some of the
musical ones would set and keep the time by sing-
ing, or humming, or calling, or some combination
of these methods. The muser recalls one occasion
when as the merest slip of a boy he went with
his sister to "a neighbor party" and witnessed
what would be called in the slang of to-day a

[ 47 ]

The Little Brown House

"kitchen shin-dig." The hostess, Mistress Sabrina,
inspired and directed the old-fashioned contra
dances in her long kitchen. Fragments of the sights
and sounds still remain with me, impressed, it
may be, by a knowledge of the parties, and by
seeing the personal application. The director was
perched upon her loom at one end of the room,
whence her voice rang out with a free and easy
swing somewhat like this, with all necessary
adaptations :

"Now cross over my son Stoddard, turn tum
diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum — down outside
now my son Amos, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum
diddle dum, come to your ma now 'Lisa Ann
Parker, you're not big enough, you're not big
enough, right and left now, Jane Alcesta, tum tum
diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum, down in the
middle Stoddard Williams, tum tum diddle dum,
tum tum diddle dum."

This lady was about the age of Charles, and
was doubtless at the wedding, and perhaps her
peculiar talent may have been called into requisi-
tion; but as this is a tale of verities and the scrolls
of the household familiars do not particularize,
it cannot be asserted. For the same reason it must
be left to the imagination to picture how Captain
Hannah beckoned Lois from the bright firelight
of the kitchen into Aunt Spiddy's dim little bed

[48]

The Little Broivn House

room for mysterious conference with certain wise
matrons, her new aunts, and how Experience gave
her timely words of advice and warning from her
ample store of hard earned knowledge, or how
Marcj' and Betsey and Persis showered upon her
maxims of wisdom for her guidance in her new
sphere, and how the words of her mentors fell
upon the ears of the happy and trustful bride with
the same abiding effect as water showered upon
the back of the proverbial duck.

The year hand on the clock of time crept on.
For two-score years Charles the singer and Lois
the baker abode together under the roof-tree of
the little brown cottage, growing browner year
by year, and then were gathered to their fathers.
Of the two children who first saw the light wuthin
these walls, Justin took unto himself a helpmeet
and dwelt in a new^ house hard by, but Harriet
remained alone in the old home. Three decades
passed. Time was left unmolested to work his
will upon the failing habitation and its forlorn,
clouded inmate. Little by little the roof gaped here
and there as if to invite the rain, the hail and the
snow. The floor of the square room and the pantry
of Bathsheba found sad companionship in the
dark yawning cellar. Riiin and decay rioted in
Aunt Spiddy's bed room. The lingering partitions,
black with grime and smoke and festooned with

[50]

The Little Brown House

dust-laden cobwebs, faltered and staggered. Still,
Harriet with bent form and tottering steps clung
steadfastly to the old-time home, all for love of it
and for the associations which filled every nook and
cranny. All else failing, she crept close to our three
old friends for sympathy and cheer, and the
staunch fireplace, the tried oven and the great
east window proved as true to Harriet as Harriet
was true to this taleful relic of by-gone days —
the little brown house on the old colonial road to
Albany.

[51]

THE MONTAGUE PRESS

3 9088 00618 5409

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